— Dinnae make ays say it again.
I hand it over, hating myself, but trying to catch my breath. The options of running away or striking back are beyond me at this point in time, and probably any. This cunt is a killer.
He casually types his number into my phone, and calls up his own, letting it ring. He hands it back to me. — We have each other’s contact info now. So ah’ll let you ken if this boy shows up. Meantime, you keep the fuck oot ay my premises, unless invited by moi. Right?
— Right. I feel my breath coming back. — Thanks… appreciated. I’m thinking to myself: If this cunt has any hoors worth thieving, they will all be working for me at an Edinburgh Colleagues, while he’ll be wearing that famous maroon jersey as he’s getting rogered daily on the beasts’ wing at Saughton. I will make that happen.
— Okay, I’m Victor, by the way, Victor Syme, this cunt says, now scarier than ever with his gossiping fishwife tones and his hand on my shoulder. — Ah’ll let ye ken if I hear anything about this… he plays with the word, —… this surgeon felly. And I’m sorry aboot the wee dig, but thaire’s a lot ay wide cunts aboot, n ye huv tae draw a wee line in the sand, he grins. — But if ye ken the likes ay Leo, and, of course, Frank Begbie, then that’s okay wi me.
I’m happy to depart this cunt’s company, although I only get round the corner before a text from him comes in.
I won’t forget. Vic S.
It’s replete with a smiley emoticon, which has never looked so sinister.
I find a grotty cafe and sit down, trying tae compose myself over a cup ay tea. This fucking town! I have to get out of here. And fuck Scottish independence: in no time at all we would be a gangster state run by scum like this cunt Syme! It’s true: you never escape old associations, no matter how tenuous you believe them to be. On that note, I’m straight on to Juice Terry. — Tezza. What’s the story with this Victor Syme cunt? Heard you did some work for him.
— Cannae talk right now, buddy boy. Where are ye?
— Broughton Street, I tell him. He must have some cunt in the back ay his cab.
— Be there in five minutes. Where aboots?
— See ye in the Basement Bar.
I retreat to the Basement, settling into the comfy seats towards the rear of the bar with two bottles of lager.
Terry is as good as his word, and swings in. Unfortunately, he leaves me waiting for such a long time while he chats to a barmaid that I have to phone him. He rolls his eyes and heads across. — You’re a cock-blocking bastard, Williamson. Seriously.
— This is important, bud. Victor Syme, I urge.
— Aye… he wis away in Spain. Terry takes a glug of lager. — The bizzies wir pittin heat oan um, but eh came back last year, Mr Fuckin Untouchable. Does that no say grass tae you? It sais it tae me.
I refuse to get enmeshed in pathetic local gangster politics. — How do you ken him?
Fae the school. Fuckin nowt in they days, we aw used tae caw um the Poof, that wis ehs nickname. Every cunt battered the wee creep back then; eh wis a late developer. Now eh thinks eh’s Mr Big cause ay Tyrone bein deid –
— Tyrone? Potted heid? This was news to me. Tyrone had been around since I was a boy. — So what happened tae the fat man?
— Burnt tae death in a fire in his hoose. He hud some war wi the young team. One ay them got done doon Leith Docks. A lot ay people are thinkin the Poof took advantage and moved in oan thum baith: Tyrone and the young gadge. Rumour is eh’s connected; goat Police Scotland, East Europeans, cunts in London and Manchester aw owin um tons ay favours, or so they say, ay? Might be shite, might no. But ah ken one thing, the cunt wis oan the lam in Spain cause the polis wir lookin for him in connection wi the disappearance ay this bird that worked in the saunas. Cowped it masel, but as a mates’ thing, nivir peyed for it. Terry looks at me in sombre insistence.
— I’ve no doubt that you could charm a prostitute into sleeping with you without a cash transaction, Terry. But you said Syme was on the run?
— Cunt hud fuck all gaun for um. He wis oot the sauna game, hidin in Spain. Then eh jist waltzes back ower like nowt’s happened. Terry looks around. Lowers his voice. — Thinks ah’m at his beck n call. ‘A wee favour, Terry mate…’ and he does a passable imitation of Syme’s snidey tones. — But he’ll git his, Terry says in empty belligerence. — Cunt’s a heidcase, keep away fae um, he warns. — Anywey, how did yir Christmas turn oot? Usual borin family stuff?
— You ken how it goes, I tell him, thinking of that cretinous brother-in-law and his imbecile son, the bother their blood-filled cocks and bloodless brains are causing me, and I idly pick up a discarded magazine on a chair. It shows an image of the actress Keira Knightley, half naked and in a sultry pose, advertising perfume.
— Fuckin ride yon, Terry announces.
— Knightley, I muse.
— Aw fuckin ooirs if she wis game.
We chat for a while, and Terry drops me off in the cab at Carlotta’s. It’s so pitch black I can’t believe that it’s only just after 8 p.m., it feels like two in the morning. I see Ben, once more in the garden, on the phone, illuminated by a trip light. Probably talking to some bird; he tells me fuck all, which I totally admire. Of course, the fact that I’m without Euan is enough tae send Carlotta into another rage. I tell her I checked the hospital and the hotels, omitting the saunas. It seems to calm her down a bit, before another bolt of fury suddenly sears her. — What did you say to Ross?
— Nothing, I protest, rubbing my gut, still tender as I lower myself onto the couch, considering that Syme might actually be able to do me a favour. Sometimes radges need to be assimilated – the Borg in Star Trek strategy – rather than opposed or ignored. The pain brings back a memory of being bullied by Begbie at school, before I became friends with Renton, who was his best mate. This was purely in order to get that psycho cunt off my back. My head is spinning. Carlotta’s eyes are batty. — Just urged the wee man to try and learn a lesson from Euan. Where is he? I see Ben out there –
— At Louisa’s, she spits, then these lamps narrow. — A lesson fae Euan? What the fuck do you mean?
I don’t know what baked beans that spineless little twat has spilled, but he’s going to get some shit back from me, via his beloved mammy. — Look, what Ross saw was quite traumatising, I concede, — but perhaps not as much as it should have been.
Carlotta’s looking at me with the big Eyetie peepers both of us inherited from Mamma, firing on full tilt. Poor Louisa: she got the old boy’s vicious, furtive Jockoid slits. — What are ye trying tae say?
— He’s my nephew and I love him, so I don’t want to grass him up, but I have good reason to believe that Ross has been watching extreme pornography.
— What?! Ross? Pornography? Online?
Oh, sis! After all those years, still making schoolgirl errors: the mistake of admitting the possibility. When defenders back off, keep running at them, twisting and turning like a squat Argentinian. Think Lionel. Think Diego. — Furthermore, I believe Euan discovered this and it unhinged him a little. Being a lad from the country and sexually inexperienced before he hooked up with you –
— Wait! Euan told you this?
— Well, in a blokish roundabout sort of way, yes, but it was more that I deduced it. No names were dropped or details offered, but I kind ay worked out it was a Taylor Swift–Michael Gove courtship with you guys, I smile. — Vamp–nerd scenario.
That teases a confirming bitter-sweet smile out of her.
— I think he was vulnerable, turning fifty n all, and that crazy harridan Marianne took advantage of the situation tae get at me, by hurting the one thing I care about, I look at her with all the intensity I can summon, — family.